Marguerite
by emily.down
Summary: Tom Riddle finds himself visiting her, against his better judgement. R&R.


1.

The smell of soap was a constant nuisance to everyone who entered her "little room". You could hardly ever mistake it for some other girl's, because nowhere was the smell of cleanliness in such sickening excess. It is not that she was very neat and orderly. No, the bed was always a giant heap of drags and every piece of furniture was in a state of disarray.

It was her hands. She could bear squalor everywhere else, but not on her hands. There might have been plenty of dust and mould covering every inch of her room, every fold of her frilled dress, maybe even every side of her red, pointed nose, and perhaps, there were some dead cockroaches under the bed, swept away by her own unsuspecting toes in the middle of the night, but all this she could gently avoid and neglect by keeping to her high-legged chair by the desk or pretending it was not there, yet should a speck of dirt get on her hands, she would instantly jump up from her seat and positively fly towards the small sink unit in the left corner, where she kept a prodigious amount of scented soap, after which she would proceed to scrub her skin vigorously until she felt the danger had passed.

Consequently, her hands looked more like two hot bricks, having lost, if they ever had, any shine or softness. But she could hardly be bothered to worry about it.

She had lived there for three years, now, and from the very beginning, there was a general air about her that she had come there only out of an overwhelming indifference to her own person. It wasn't the kind of flippant, snobbish indifference that so many young people can't help but make a show of everywhere, but more a natural inclination not to think much of where and how she was situated. There was a kind of stupid simplicity about it, or maybe, in fact, a great intelligence in realizing from an early stage, that it did not matter. As to her profession, she understood the small tragedy inherent to her new establishment, but if she was morose or sad from time to time, it was from entirely different reasons. Some of her more refined clients had opinionated that she might be suffering from a _lack_ of suffering.

"Maybe she thinks it's all monotonous and that there is no change in her life because she lives so emptily, maybe she needs a little pain," a concerned, old counsellor who came to the place more to admire and guide the girls paternally, than bodily (though one should not garner these words with much innocence), had told her employer one evening as he was exiting the house.

The only break from monotony and the only indication that she was slightly frustrated, or at least affected by her nightly tasks, was this obsessive and alarming washing she performed with such religiousness. Otherwise she was a calm and collected creature, of moderate words and very unengaged manners.

She slept a great deal as well and she kept a dog-eared volume of Bunyan's _The Pilgrim's Progress_ under her mattress, a fact which had rendered many of her housemates quite speechless.

All things considered, however, she was not very particular. In everything else she submitted to the general tastes of the household.

The establishment was not exactly famed in those quarters; that is to say not famed for its reputation or its services, but rather for its specificity. It catered for specific tastes. It could satisfy certain obscure and inaccessible fancies. It is the reason for which Margaret, the compulsive hand-washer, had a place there to begin with. It may be that her employer had noticed her strange obsession and decided she would keep her around simply for this quixotic detail, but the mistress in question was a very limited woman who saw this type of brutal cleanliness as exotic, so who knew really, if every fancy and taste were really ever provided for. The word about was that they were.

It was this peculiar gossip that drew some very hot-headed young men in the middle of summer to cool themselves off, crossing the threshold of that house in hope of relief.

Mrs. Cole's Orphanage For Children of All Ages was one other establishment to be found nearby that suffered constantly from the influence of this den of vagaries. The stubborn, mischievous boys of ages thirteen to eighteen would scour the streets and end up there almost by law of reason. Every year, a new batch would present itself, freshly hatched from childhood, to take its rightful place in the chain of adolescent retribution. Some of them suspected right away they would encounter disappointment, especially the older ones, but they went either way because another natural law dictated that you could not surpass your present condition without disappointment.

However, this is not what drove Tom Riddle to visit the house one evening. It was not a romantic desire to be subjected to the sting of shame and self-reproach, necessary for self-discovery. It was not that perverse desire to bask in one's own abject condition. It was not even a base and primal lust, thinly veiled by youthful curiosity.

He had managed to extract a most interesting piece of information. His Legilimency skills being sharpened by a full year of practice on benumbed classmates and inexperienced professors, he had, at length, succeeded in singling out some key images from Mrs. Cole's unsuspecting, puny, plum-shaped head. And, as he could only piece those images in some form of correlated narrative, he had come to the following conclusion; his slightly deranged and impaired mother had given birth to him in that very ill-reputed house of pleasure.

Usually, upon discovering such a picaresque detail, narcissistic and ambitious young men tend to either feel a kind of earned nobility and singularity derived from the romantic ideal of the whore's son turned into a glorious prince, or they feel deeply hurt and wronged in their utmost brilliance, which again, comes as a satisfaction for those of romantic inclinations (they have reason to pity and console themselves).

But, as Tom Riddle possessed none such ideals, or at least none that needed to stem from ludicrous associations with birth places, he had a more specific need to visit the place. It was more of a confirmation of sorts, of his existence. He wanted to know exactly where and how his life had started, how it had all begun, where he had been cast away into the world. He considered it a necessary journey into his past. In a way, it was youthful curiosity, but it was sincere.

It happened during the summer of his seventeenth year. His prospects were turning grim. He would soon graduate from Hogwarts and as he abhorred the Ministry and had no wish to be someone's office boy, he would have to settle for something modest, even despicably modest, but simple enough to carry on his real interests.

In his quiet search for job offers in Diagon Alley, he had slowly but surely, crossed into Muggle London with the intention of at least indulging in the mad idea that he could ever stand working for Muggles. It was rather amusing to see how many open spots there were for positions he could actually fill, with a bit of effort on his part.

His steps had led him almost instinctively and imminently, as they did from time to time, to Magwitch, the house of his birth. He always stopped across the street, however, observing from afar. He had never actually gone in. He saw plenty of his mates from the orphanage, of course. Many were regulars, but he had never trespassed.

Except now, it was becoming inevitable. And it did finally transpire in the middle of August.

He had seen enough in Mrs. Cole's head to acquire a blurry image of the inside of the house and some of the gloomy rooms within. And she had even been unconsciously helpful as to the particular room in which he had been delivered. With this plan in mind, he set to work at once.

* * *

Magwitch was not a pleasant place in August. The heat rolled off in waves from every single corner, (remainders of June and July). Every room was stuffy. Dust had become a source of light. It floated almost translucently in small circles which grew wider and wider with each new object that came into view. No one had bothered to wash the parlour floor and there was a distinct smell of paint, sweat and vinegar, mingled with pork and mashed potatoes, the meal served but three hours ago. The kitchen was close by. And so was the laundrette.

Tom Riddle was sitting on a chair next to a decrepit piano forte, staring fixedly towards a door on his right that led into what he presumed would be _that_ corridor, the corridor he had seen in Mrs. Cole's mind, the one with the white lilies on the blue wallpaper. Door no. 5. That was the room.

Not wanting to appear suspicious he had made sure to know the girl's name beforehand. It had not been particularly hard to find out since there was a bit of talk about her among the boys. Some of them were convinced she was dying. It was odd; their first impression of her was not that she was mad, mentally deranged, or simply careless, but that she was on the brink of death.

Tom had listened carefully. His mind had registered every meaningless detail and had woven a complicated web of images that were dangerously reminiscent of his own dying mother. At least, if he were ever to paint Merope Riddle's likeness, he would apply the same adjectives, perhaps unawares.

"Night Call for Margaret?" a stout, heavy-looking old man mumbled more than asked from the kitchen door, holding a starch piece of cloth in his left hand. Usually, Mrs. Pert would be the one receiving guests, but she had taken ill.

Riddle got up instantly, smiling to himself feverishly. It had been fortunate that Mrs. Pert hadn't received him, after all. She would have known he was new. The old man did not ask him if he knew his way, assuming no one would willingly visit Margaret for their first time. And Riddle was at his leisure.

* * *

Margaret was standing, as she usually did when it was too hot to sit on the bed, perched on the window sill like a wild animal, looking outside, although all she could see was a squalid courtyard. She was flipping the pages in front of her without really reading. She disdained every word of it. The old counsellor had lent her the volume during one of his paternal visits. He had made her read it to him and she had wrinkled her nose at every single line. She had always loathed _The Lady of the Camellias_. The counsellor had thought it very suitable at the time. A clever, sentimental joke.

"Isn't it ironic, my dear Marguerite? I think so. I know this is your first and last book. Oh, and how beautiful! You _are_ Marguerite Gautier, you share the same name, the same blood... You _must_ be French. Now tell me, would you like to be her? In her situation, I mean. Would it be better to be noble and self-sacrificing?" he had asked her with great enthusiasm.

Marguerite had suppressed a cold smile.

"I prefer it here," she had replied soberly.

"Oh, you say that of course because you do not wish to appear ridiculous, which I admire," he had told her, holding one of her breasts in his hand as tenderly as a bird, "but you shouldn't be afraid of her fate. It may seem undesirable, but I wouldn't let you - and certainly you would never have her final fate. No, you see, Armand, he was to blame. That selfish young man had no head for a woman like her. But I'm sure you'd be perfectly indifferent to Armand. And you would not love Armand."

Margaret had nodded her head in disgust.

"Now, please, tell me you will read it thoroughly and think on it and give me your thoughts. But please, start from the beginning again, I wish to hear your voice..."

Those evenings had been a torment to her. She could barely swallow the bile in her throat every time she had to re-enact the stale amorous passages. She would have preferred any ungodly sexual whim.

Only after making her recite Marguerite's words in his ear for the umpteenth time, did he even deign to touch her.

And at that point, she considered it a blessing.

Now that she held her tormenter in the palm of her hands, literally, she could inflict all the damage in the world to it. She would have to invent some faint excuse to the counsellor, but she would do that and much more if she could exact revenge on the novel.

Feeling a sudden itch underneath her petticoat, she jumped up, dropped the book on the floor between her legs, crouched down slightly and without even giving herself the time to think it through, she let herself go.

This is how Tom Riddle actually found her, to be specific; peeing gracefully on _The Lady of the Camellias_.

The shock of that first meeting made it clear to him in an instant that she could never portray the Merope Gaunt of his imagination.

The most ghastly thing was that, as she gradually looked up and became aware of his existence she did not move or make any gesture to stop. She remained crouched and continued, unflinchingly. Her eyes were slightly foggy indeed and there was some embarrassment in them, but beyond that she was quite calm.

Riddle, who had much more cold blood than credited, shut the door behind him quickly, making sure no one had seen her exhibition.

Margaret waited until she was finished. Then she eyed Riddle and smiled benevolently towards him, the only smile he would receive for the night.

"Would you pass me that rag on the sink?" she asked rather grimly.

Tom, who was still absently staring at her in awe, was not at first responsive. She coughed several times to get his attention.

At last, he mumbled an excuse under his breath and hastened to get the cloth. It was wet.

She yanked more than took it from him, wiping herself rigorously, after which she dropped it in the corner next to the window.

Stepping away from the puddle she straightened the folds of her murky dress and limped more than walked, since her soles were quite wet, towards the sink unit.

She opened a small glass case in which she kept her precious soaps. Her nose identified each and every one of them, arranged in a row for specific purposes. This time, she took hold of the yellow one.

Margaret began to wash her hands meticulously.

The cruel smell of soap, the usual fragrance of the room, settled knowingly in the air. It made a clear contrast to the smell of vinegar he had left behind.

Riddle watched her in a daze. She kept scrubbing her fingers without mercy, almost as if she were trying to peel off her skin.

When after two full minutes the process was done, she washed the lather and started waving her hands in the air in rapid motions in order to dry them up.

After which, Margaret walked back to the window and sat down on the chair nearby.

Only now did he notice the book in the middle of the puddle. He read the title almost by accident.

Something in his memory clicked. He knew it was a Muggle novel and he believed he knew what it was about. He often went to the cinema in summer and he had seen a movie called _Camille_. He had found it horrid, naturally. But he always schooled himself in such ways.

Margaret saw him staring at the book and she perceived he knew it by his expression.

Without being offered, he sat down on the bed.

"All right. I suppose you should get undressed. If you want to," she remarked, picking up hairs from her dress.

Riddle was instead inspecting the room avidly. The proverbial cradle. Everything in it screamed of despair. He wrinkled his nose. He had a pensive air about him and Margaret suddenly realized by his gait and the way he traced every object with his eyes that he was new and that, most importantly, he was going to be difficult. She didn't know how she knew exactly, but there was a dark shadow at the corner of his mouth and that was never a good thing.

He looked rather handsome for someone so young. But she never bothered to ask.

"This is my room," she suddenly told him. His inquisitive eyes were beginning to bore holes in the walls.

"Yours?" Riddle echoed hoarsely.

His voice was melodious, she remarked.

"I pay for it, at least. So of course it looks like this. But you shouldn't mind it. It's clean enough."

Riddle raised his eyebrows in contempt and glanced towards the puddle of piss.

"Well, apart from _that_," she said reluctantly, a shadow of laughter in her voice.

Riddle frowned, appearing to be even more nonplussed. That's _not_ clean enough, his eyes seemed to say.

"Yes, fine," she continued quickly, impatient to get the explanation out of the way, "there is _that_. But peeing on that vile thing is a very proper thing to do."

Riddle's expression darkened. "Vile thing?"

Margaret waved her hand nonchalantly. "A novel."

"You...do this to all novels, on principle?" he asked, as his eyes continued to roam the room.

"No. Only to stupid ones," she replied awkwardly. She did not like his roaming. He seemed to be looking for something and she did not like that either.

"You think it's stupid then?" he continued, absent-mindedly.

"What is?"

"The novel."

"This novel, yes."

"This novel?" he asked listlessly.

Margaret growled slightly under her breath. "Of course _this_ novel. Well, damn it already! What do you have in mind then?"

Riddle was now perusing the bed itself.

"Are you from the country-side?" she asked impatiently.

He instantly drew up at this perceived slight.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Only that you're very curious," she replied, ignoring his sudden glare.

"And you're quite disgusting. I would not touch you with a poker. But I try to refrain from expressing such opinions," he remarked acidly, eyeing her up and down.

"You did, however, express them," Margaret contradicted him.

"For lack of any suitable conversation."

"Oh, is that what you want? Conversation?"

"No. I want you to be silent. And still. I only want to sit here for a while and look. Not at you. So do not move," he said quickly, his voice a pitch higher than before.

She lowered her eyes in amusement, but her mouth remained just as grim. A grim pink line.

His jaw trembled slightly when he saw her stretch her legs in front of her and her skin revealed itself in yellow clots.

She had settled for a more comfortable position.

"All right then."

She was relaxed now and rather happy with this arrangement. She had feared before that his inquisitive eye was a sign of some form of obsession, some incurable yearning that could only be satisfied in self-destruction. She had entertained suicidal youths before. She still believed he was going to be difficult, though.

Riddle began pacing the room up and down, touching the walls, feeling the furniture, bending over to look under the bed or the table, doing his best to avoid her.

He would have liked to Obliviate her and search the room at his leisure, applying his wand freely, but despite being of age now, he felt rather reluctant to do so because, ever since his "accident" last year, the Ministry kept a close watch on him and the last thing he wanted was to inform the Ministry about his whereabouts and his occupations, since they could easily track him.

Instead, he limited himself to careful and almost reverential analysis. He wanted to memorize the room, to swallow it up and plant it deep inside the recesses of his mind.

At one point during his ruminations he got the idea to lie down on the bed to have a better look at the ceiling. By now it was getting excessively late and he knew all too well he would have to pay a bit more than one usually did. But he was ready to give up all his savings.

Margaret was watching him with interest. She had never seen a more serious young man in her life. And so very arrogant, but an arrogance that was somehow pure and unaltered.

When she saw he had lain down in her bed and was staring intently at the ceiling, she almost hoped he would fall asleep so she could observe him closely.

Her wish was granted, unexpectedly.

Tom Riddle dozed off.

He became aware at one point that he was dreaming. He was often "awake" in his sleep, though it was more a dumb state of paralysis.

Somehow, even subconsciously, he was expecting to dream of his mother, his birth, his ancestors, something grand and meaningful. He was expecting an illumination.

His mind had other thoughts, however.

The ignominy of his dream made him so miserable that he woke with a jolt.

Margaret was now sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him like a hawk, one palm pressed on the sheet.

He raised himself slightly, looking at her greasy complexion with contempt, but upon realizing where he was and what he had done, he almost shuddered from head to toe.

He had slept for a full hour and his head was thumping. He was growing increasingly ashamed.

He got up drowsily and spent a good minute rubbing his eyes. After which he took out all the money he had on him and placed it next to him on the bed.

"I will probably – not return," he managed to say at length.

Margaret stood up and bent forward, making a small curtsey. Riddle's eyes widened.

"Why would you..."

"I bow to anyone who says they will not return. As a thank you," she explained, curling her lip.

Riddle seemed confounded. His eyes fell on the puddle again, then on her dress, then on her meagre figure.

He nodded his head, grabbed the knob, pulled it roughly and rushed out without looking back.

Margaret shut the door behind him and waited for a moment until the echo of his steps faded into the distance. Then she sprinted to her bed almost cheerfully, without exactly knowing why. Taking out a small brush from under the mattress, she started cleaning after him.

There was little to remove.

* * *

Tom only stopped when he had reached the orphanage's gates. He almost crumbled down right on the pavement. He rubbed his eyes again.

The dream had been etched into his eyelids. He had dreamt of that girl, that mad girl, crouching down to pee. That had been his magnificent dream. A wild, disgusting, lowly creature, relieving herself in front of him.

He almost felt as if he had actually slept with her, although he knew he would never find it in himself to touch her.

It was so horrid, so despicable. The room had been tainted not by depravity, but by her own grotesque madness. Only now did he realize she had desecrated his cradle.

Shame mingled with anger and an irrepressible desire to strangle her neck consumed him.

But what good would it do now? Unless he planned on going back to that house.

Dark clouds gathered above his head.


End file.
